


All along I believed I would find you - time has brought your heart to me

by HashiHimee



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:40:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26598451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HashiHimee/pseuds/HashiHimee
Summary: They’re called Flah, two souls always destined to be together but not always destined to stay together.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	All along I believed I would find you - time has brought your heart to me

They’re called _Flah_ , two linked souls forced to seek each other through the centuries.

They’re called _Flah_ , two souls destined to always find the other throughout their lives.

They’re called _Flah_ , two souls whose fate is closely intertwined.

They’re called _Flah_ , two souls linked by something stronger than destiny.

They’re called _Flah_ , two souls destined to follow each other forever.

They’re called _Flah_ , two souls always destined to be together but not always destined to stay together.

They’re called _Flah_ and their fate is said to be the most cruel.

They’re called _Flah_ but they are just seekers looking for something they don't remember owning.

*

_Greece. May 22 nd, 317 b.C. _

He runs wild and free, barefoot thumping against the ground. A laugh is all but pulled out of his chest and he lets it free, startling some birds on a nearby three. His laugh is rich and happy, warm and carefree and floating in the warm air. He trips but keeps laughing and rolls with the fall ending sprawled on the ground, chest heaving and long brown hair tangled in the soft grass.

He stretches one arm upward, toward the clear sky, and splays his fingers to watch the sunlight filters through before letting his limb fall back on the ground. He smiles brightly up at the sky before turning his head to stare at the grass and wildflowers all around him. They’re small and yellow and pretty and he takes one, twirling it between two fingers.

He hears footsteps approaching but he waits calmly and at peace until the scent of spring is overpowered by that of a beautiful and deadly thunderstorm, then he sits up tucking the flower behind his ear into strands of brown hair.

He watches the other, beautiful and his, take the last steps that separates them giddy and happy. The other man is clad in a brown tunic, just like him, his long black hair wild and swinging slightly over his back with every step he takes, his black eyes are shining with mischief.

He hurriedly and clumsy gets up and tries to run away but the other just tackles him down and then he’s laughing again against a pale collarbone, this time, with wild dark hair tickling his nose.

He smiles up at his man and gently rubs their noses together almost childishly. The other leans down to slot their lips together and what has started like a soft and chaste kiss ends up a roaring inferno of passion.

His breath hitches and he closes his eyes and feels the way their skins touch. He has never felt alone with this man at his side, they have always been whole together.

*

_France. October 7th, 251 b.C._

The air of the night is chilling on her bare arms and raising goosebumps all over her skin. She ventures deeper inside the wood, following that scent of powerful and terrifying thunderstorm. But she’s not scared. Her body is mostly covered in thick clothes she has stitched together but everything seems grey under the pale moonlight. Her long brown hair moves over her shoulders and chest and looks black and alive. She takes another step and then stops before entering a clearing.

There’s a small wooden construction on the farthest side and a circle of big stone right in the middle. A fire is lighting and warming the air and a figure is hunched down and poking at the embers with a stick. She watches from afar, soaking in the sight and filling her lungs with that scent, untameable and powerful. The fire crackles loudly, sparkles floating in the air, and she approaches, her steps silent on the hard ground. 

The druid is clad in warm robes, he’s ancient, his long hair silver, where draped over his back and showered in the moonlight, and bloody and golden, covering half his face where lightened by the firelight. His hands are scrawny and fragile and his skin looks white and soft as snow. He turns to her when she sits by his side throwing another piece of wood in the fire. One eye is missing but the other stares at her, black and bottomless and knowing. She takes his hand and gently runs her thumb over his old knuckles savoring the feeling.

The moon starts to set and she leaves turning one last time to look at him and feeling the hole in her chest starting to chew at her again. She won’t see him until the moon will be full once more and she will be cold the entire time and lonely. Her aching heart yearning to be by that fireplace.

*

_England. August 10 th, 70 b.C._

She paints her face red and brown and black looking into the bucket of water before joining her man and standing by his side. She has draped herself in fur and resistant fabric, soft despite its roughness against her skin, and braided her hair in a long waterfall of brown strands. She feels and looks threatening and powerful with her axe strapped over her back and her men calling loudly for her. She’s their leader’s woman and they’re both powerful and showing it during the meeting with a rival group. She stands by her man’s side in front of their men, waiting. When the other leader arrives, flanked by his woman and followed by his men, she’s helpless to the pull.

It’s the first time she has even felt like that, sucked and thrown around by a force she has never known, by a pull she can't control, by something she does not want to fight.

She fixes her eyes dead in those of the other leader’s woman. She can see how the other is wild and powerful, how she carries herself, regal and sure in her right to be exactly where she is. Her hair is black, darker then the moonless night, and pulled back as not to impede the view; her eyes are pitch black, cold and hard and angry and lonely. Her lips are thin and pulled into a snarl, threatening and arousing. Her pale skin is covered in red and blue battle paint, her dark clothes showing off impressive legs and arms. She has a bow tied to her back and a short sword at her hip. She shifts her weight and licks her lips, staring at her, and the axe on her back makes a soft sound shifting against the fur.

The meeting goes well, they find a way to satisfy their wishes, and them both battle each other about trades and alliance under the appreciating gazes of their men.

When the night comes and the air is heavy with music and chatters and the laugher loud and drunk around the bonfire, she leaves her man’s side to blend into the fresh night outside. The sky is dotted with twinkling stars and the moon shines pale and beautiful. She breathes deeply and for the first time she feels whole.

The crispy scent of an incoming storm, untamable and all-consuming, reaches her; she breathes deeply once more to commit the scent to memory but there’s no way she could have ever forgotten that smell if she has even tasted it. It makes her complete. She turns her head and standing there like the moon herself she is, bathed in silver light and proud. And beautiful.

One moment they’re staring at each other and the next they’re running wild into the wood and through clearings of tall grass. They’re chasing each other, hunting, prey and predator, both and neither at the same time.

They clash together and roll down an hill, all forceful grips and demanding lips and wandering hands. They breathe life in each other lungs with each kiss, force power in each other muscles with each touch, exchange blood with each bite. They come together like shooting stars and love roughly, forcefully, desperately each other under the moon covered in a thin layer of clouds.

Neither of them have never felt more whole.

*

_Iran. January 16 th, 161. _

She had been brought to the capital to become a concubine, her pale complexion a rarity here. She has soon become the favorite, granted privileges and some freedom. Looking through the curtains of her carriage she watches peasants walking around, merchants selling their goods, children chasing dogs, whores alluring drunkards. A life so distant, so different from hers. She tosses a strand of her dark hair, dump with sweat and sleek with oil, over her shoulder before resuming looking out.

In the carriage the air is almost unbreathable for it’s hot and moist but the heat outside is even worst. She blinks, suddenly not bored, when she glimpses at something that pulls at her heart. She taps sharply on the carriage and it stops so she can focus better. She scans the crowd with keen eyes. There.

One of the whores is leaning against a dry wall, dressed in a green fabric; her skin a rich copper and covered in a layer of sweat and oil glistering in the sun, her long hair looks like a waterfall over her naked chest and back just a shade darker than her skin. She turns sensually, hiking the green fabric higher on her leg, and smiling.

In her carriage the concubine calls for one of her men. She can't leave that whore on the street. A soldier approaches the whore and even from the carriage she can see how her eyes turn sharp, the smile never leaving her lips. When she’s sure the whore will be brought to the palace, the concubine taps on wood once more and the carriage moves, bringing her back.

She waits near the huge cage housing exotic birds, all so colorful and loud. In the garden the air is cooler and sweat is drying over her skin. She hears the guard approaching, his steps loud and heavy, but she does not hear her so she turns to face them.

She has been cleaned and dressed in a light blue dress, her hair still dump and dripping water on her back. The concubine studies her keenly, walking slowly around her still figure. She seems to be a little older than herself, with some scars littering her body, paler than her tan skin and contrasting sharply. Her eyes are guarded and dark and her nose a bit crooked.

They stare at each other and no one smiles but the whore bows and when she stands her brown eyes are shining so the concubine bows back calmly, her heart full and whole.

*

_China. September 12 th, 742._

She wakes up from her slumber when a small noise interrupts the silence. Her chambers are big and airy and faintly smelling of incense. The hot sun of the afternoon makes everything seem soft like the small sweet treats she has eaten in the morning. She rubs her arms around her silky sheets, the fabric smooth but warm over her tanned skin. Her hair is free, for once, smoother than the sheets and undoubtedly more shiny. The rich brown gains red highlights when she rolls on her side and then she freezes.

Breath and heart in her throat she can only stare at the dark figure perched on her open windowsill. The figure is dark only because the sun shines right behind it but when the person moves, soundlessly landing inside the room, she can see a woman clad in blue robes. She straightens from her crouched position showing a lean frame; her hair is pulled back and braided tightly enlightening her soft round face. Her lips are pink and dry and a tongue quickly runs over them to moist them. She’s standing so very still but her dark eyes are roaming and glancing and darting all across the room.

On her bed she does not dare move, frozen and staring at her. Time seems to stretch and stop and the sun shines in the room raising the temperature even more but she’s standing there, unyielding and strong, studying the room. When their eyes meet, on her bed she gasps like the very air she’s been breathing is sucked out of her lungs and for a small second she thinks her life is about to end.

She clumsy sits, sheets pooling at her hips and breathes softly through parted lips. The other woman moves, fast and sure, grabbing some objects and putting them in a pouch on her lower back. They are valuable on the market, that she knows, but pale in comparison of what she has found. She watches with bathed breaths and big eyes not wanting to miss even the smallest of the other woman’s moves. And not because she’s a thief and an intruder but to commit to memory everything she can, to savor the feel of being in the same room.

The woman turns to the window, one hand on the frame and a foot on the sill, and glances at her for a second. Then she disappears, out of her window and out of her reach. She dashes there, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, one last small interaction. The only thing she finds is the bare expanse of the roof. She turns back and where once has stood a small, jade statue, a red ribbon is laying.

She grabs it, runs her thumb over the rough fabric and ties it around her wrist. She holds her wrist to her nose and inhales. The scent of an incoming storm lingering on the fabric.

*

_Japan. February 19 th, 1233._

The sakura petals are flowing all around him, swaying in the gentle breeze and painting everything in soft stokes of pink he can't see. Some are caught in his hair, pitch black and tied tightly, and in his red armor, dusty and creaking slightly with each step he takes.

He has been walking for days toward a shrine to pray the monks to find a way to fix his eyesight. He can't be the samurai he’s expected to be if he’s blind. The breeze changes and his nose is filled with the pungent smell of blood, his ears with the faint whimpers of someone dying. The samurai changes his path and follows the lead to the dying person.

A little off the road, a small body he can't see clearly is sprawled on the ground. The sakura petals are red with blood all around the figure, a sea of red expanding with each passing second. There’s another pained whimper and with it the smell of damp soil and leaves hits the samurai like a blow to the chest. He knows that voice and he knows that scent; they have always been treasured in his heart, hidden even to himself.

He kneels beside the body, the fabric of his pants soaking in the blood, and runs pale hands on the small boy lying in a pool of his own blood. With his fingers, smearing red all over rapidly paling skin, he traces the lines of the boy’s face, arms, torso and legs; he’s skinny and small, a child who has probably lived in the street judging by the roughness of his clothes. He would recognize him in any shape he would take. There’s no mistaking him.

The samurai shifts his stance and gently takes the dying boy into his arms, holding him gently against his armored chest, close to his heart. He trails his trembling fingers over the boy’s face trying to see with his touch that face he’s been missing all his life. He can see how his fingers are leaving trails of blood over the boy’s features so he moves his hand to his hair, short and knotted and wet with blood. He holds his hand there, gently rubbing circles with his thumb in the boy’s hair, and staring at his bloody face with mostly unseeing eyes. He curses in his head but even this close the boy’s face is blurry.

The samurai holds the boy to his chest well long after he has died and then some more. He soaks up in the feeling of having him in his arms and in the cruelty of having found him only to lose him again. He then lays the boy down carefully and strips of his armor.

He prays for the boy and for himself before thrusting his blade into his stomach and welcomes the pain gladly. It’s a much more manageable pain than the one he has felt all his life.

*

_Italy. November 8 th, 1361._

She winches when her new servant pulls her black hair a bit too roughly so she scolds her harshly. The girl bows deeply and disappears and she tries to fix her long hair. The deep blue of her dress is the same shade that shines in her hair under the sunlight and makes her dark eyes stand out even more against her pale skin. When she deems herself presentable, she stands and makes her way to the inner court, ready to welcome their guests; they will be there shortly and her father has wished for her to be present. She knows that among their guests is her future husband.

When their guests arrive, with too much fanfare for her liking, she bows politely but coldly and when her father introduces her to her future husband she feels nothing but the usual ache and loneliness in her heart. She lets him fuss around her with words she doesn’t listen to, her dark and sharp eyes searching for something she’s not even sure is there or what it is she’s looking for. She focuses back on her future husband and guides him into the dining room following her father; his entourage following along and chatting happily.

She’s picking bored at some crumbs of bread and looking into the fireplace when the doors open and the younger brother of her future husband walks in profusely apologizing for his lateness. The rich baritone of his voice has her turning sharply, the crumbs dotting her dress like stars in the midnight sky. His smile is open and mischief, his eyes big and warm and his presence is reassuring. She can't tear her eyes away. He greets her father first then his brother and smiles apologetically throughout the scolding he receives.

He turns to her and she sees the moment he understands, the moment he knows who she is, in his eyes. She sees recognition, happiness, hope and then pain, immense pain, flickering in his eyes. She knows he can see the same thing in hers. She stands, excuses herself and retires to her chambers.

She cries for them both that night and her eyes are puffy and red and still crying when she falls asleep. She cries for they have found each other, filled the gaping holes in their chests but can't be together. She cries knowing he’s crying, too.

*

_Peru. June 26 th, 1530._

Her hair is dump with her own sweat and stuck to her neck and forehead. Her pale complexion, admired and fanned upon back in her country, is ugly reddened by the burning sun. Her dress is tight and too warm in the moist air of the jungle. Her shoes sink in the soft ground with every step. 

She huffs irritated, displeased and hot. No one has told her how uncomfortable the jungle can be and the silent presence of the man escorting her is scarier than the low hum of the jungle itself. She keeps going feeling deep inside of her that she’s near. Near to what remains unclear but she knows she is.

She slumps on a flat stone when her feet ache too much and she can't keep going and she breathes loudly and inelegantly the moist air, her silent guard stands by her side, hand on the massive gun on his hip and searching all around them for a sign something is out of place.

A quiet, almost inaudible sound comes from behind her and she almost misses it lost in her thoughts and studying the wild ambience around her. Her guard stiffens and she looks around startled.

A small girl is hiding behind a tree and looking curiously at her. She’s tan, her skin a rich brown and her hair almost black in the shadow she’s hiding but long and moving with the warm wind. She has feather in her hair, colorful and pretty, and she’s dressed in nothing but a scrap of fabric around her hips. Her bare feet are dirty and so small. The girl looks at her and her eyes sparkle and she’s thrown inside that deep, warm, smiling brown.

She stands and takes a step toward the girl, holding out her hand, hoping she will take it. She takes a few steps forward, too, and then smiles brightly but somewhat timid and she can only smile back, sweet and soft. The girl reaches for one of the feathers in her hair and delicately holds it out for her. An offering. She wipes a lone tear sliding down her cheek while she reaches for the dark feather.

She doesn’t hear the bang of the shoot. She watches with wide eyes, startled and scared and uncomprehending, the girl being thrown backward and blood pouring out of her small naked chest. The girl crumples to the soft ground and she screams then, loud and desperate, trying to rush to her. A strong arm holds her back and she struggles to get to the girl, to hold her, to reach, to touch. She screams pained and terrified because suddenly she’s cold, so very cold and alone, more than she has even been before.

She screams and trashes watching the soil absorb all the blood pouring down the girl’s chest. The feather the small girl has been holding out for her has fluttered down at her feet but she doesn’t notice.

*

_Australia. December 23 rd, 1788. _

He has worked as a farmer all his life, tending to the fields and caring for the beasts. Life has been peaceful, all in all. He carefully lowers himself on a rocking chair and smiles around his pipe. Life has been a bit lonely, maybe. But he has nothing to complain about. His skin has lost its tan and on his hands there are white splotches no one seems to be able to fix. He doesn’t mind. That white skin is achingly dear to him and he doesn’t even know why. Strangely his hair is still dark, undoubtedly intertwined with silver strands, but mostly still that rich brown even if now duller. He fixes his hat and stares ahead at the peaceful expanse of land. He wishes for a storm.

He’s waiting patiently for a rich man, a businessman come from England to seek fortune in the newly built city, and his daughter to arrive. If he’s not mistaken the girl’s birthday will be the next day and her father wants to gift her a new horse. He has some of the most beautiful animals in this area, after all.

The farmer stretches his legs and relaxes until the man and his daughter arrive. He smiles welcoming at them both and offers to guide them both to the stall. The man refuses and he calls for one of the guy working for him to bring something to eat and drink for the man.

He walks slowly, using his cane as support, towards the stall and the girl walks by his side. She smiles sadly and softly at him brushing her long black hair back behind her ear. She has a soft face and pale skin but the farmer knows she will be reddened by the sun in the spring. Her eyes are black and shed a few tears when she runs a hand down the neck of his best horse.

He gives her his cleanest handkerchief and she wipes her eyes before giving it back. Before tucking it into the pocket the scent of a storm hits him and he looks up at the clear sky. He glances at the fabric in his hand and then at her. He smiles, this time knowing and resigned, and she smiles back.

He has wished for a storm and the storm has come to him.

*

_Russia. March 1 st, 1856. _

The street is busy and full of people walking quickly, carriages whose wood creaks because of the wind and, despite the snow is falling serene and dense, the noise of life around the inn is loud even through closed windows; the inn is always open, night and day, and there is never a shortage of customers because in a port city the bustle of people is always constant. The lights of the room spread a yellow halo even outside through the slightly misted windows and the snow that managed to settle on the windowsill glistens weakly; despite the dark sky, the freezing wind and the snow, life goes on hurriedly.

The boy, a boy of about sixteen years of age, with ruffled black hair, snow-white skin and eyes as dark as night, is cleaning one of the tables with a rag that has seen better days; he will not complain, however, because the owner has offered him a place to sleep and two hot meals a day, some new clothes and a safer job than the previous one, always walking around the streets risking to die of a cold. A group of sailors, probably just landed and half frozen, enters the room and immediately their voices join the others already present; the men sit down and the boy hurries to provide them with food and drinks before retreating behind the counter and serving other customers.

The girls who works with him in the restaurant entertains the men and the other boy, a few years older, is in the kitchen helping the cook, an enviable job even if perhaps more tiring, so he has to manage the room together with the owner and look after the fire; while he’s fixing the embers the bell above the door rings to signal the arrival of new customers but he does not turn to check.

Only when a gust of wind brings to his nostrils the scent of trees laden with leaves after the rain and the damp soil around their roots does the boy turn around suddenly and remain motionless to observe the new customers; it’s an heterogeneous group of young men and women, about ten years older than him, probably merchants whose ship would sail in a short time given the clothing they’re wearing, but everything else disappears into the background when the boy finds the origin of that scent. The fire crackles loudly behind him and he adds a piece of wood trying to ignore the impulse he has to turn around and reach what he hasn't known he has been missing until then, what has always belonged to him without him knowing.

Head down, he goes back to the counter and starts cleaning the glasses accumulated in the sink, his eyes stubbornly on the soapy water and focused on rubbing. Laughter reaches his ears and the boy can't help but look up; he would have recognized that laughter everywhere despite this being the first time the sound reaches his ears, just as he has recognized that scent, just as a single glance would have been enough to recognize the person to whom the laughter belongs.

The laughter, full, happy and warm belongs to a girl dressed in dark heavy clothes, with skin kissed by the sun despite the fact that the sun is rarely seen here, with long chocolate brown hair and warm brown eyes and, even if he’s only seeing the girl's back and her hair reflecting the light of the lamps, the boy knows that her smile lights her face and her eyes are surrounded by small expression lines. He would recognize her everywhere even without needing to see her, because she is what he has always been looking for even without knowing it.

The boy looks down and focuses back on his work, his heart tight in a painful grip and his throat closed. That group of young people stays in the inn until the first light of dawn and when the boy returns after throwing out the trash, she has disappeared along with her scent and her laugh, leaving him empty again.

A little less than a month later, rumors arrive at the inn that the ship on which they have sailed has sank due to a storm without leaving survivors, swallowed up by the icy waters of the north; the boy knows with absolute certainty that even his end will come soon.

When death arrives, through a fever that he can't fight, he welcomes it calmly with the awareness that he would meet her again, in another world, in another life, with another story.

*

_Germany. April 4 th, 1917._

He has been fighting for almost three years and has come out relatively unscathed; this is not a war, it is a slow and painful and useless death. Many of his companions have died of starvation, of cold, due to infections. The trenches are open-air tombs, mass graves already full of soldiers who try to survive and know that this is the place where they will die.

But he has been fighting for almost three years, coming out relatively unscathed and this can only be some divine sign, even if he barely believes in God anymore. His task is simple this time: he and his companions must escort a paltry load of supplies; gathered in the square they help to load the crates onto the truck and then they sit down, ready to go.

He’s about twenty-four years old and does not know whether to hope to survive this war or to die, his hair has never been so short and his skin has never been so pale and sick, the dark circles under his eyes have never been so deep; their journey to the trench is long and, as they proceed on bumpy roads, on their tongues they can feel their own desperation and that of their companions.

He would like to go back but he doesn't even know if he has anything to go back to.

It’s a moment; it’s all it takes. One moment he’s dragging a lungful of smoke from a cigarette in silence, and the next the world explodes around him and everything is upside down and the only thing he knows is the pain in his right arm. A mine. They have passed over a mine.

When he wakes up, the first thought is to finally be dead because there is the smell of trees and soil after the rain and the emptiness he has felt in his chest has been filled; there are warm but rough hands touching his forehead and when he opens his eyes the only thing he can see is him. He is what he has always lacked and he is now right there, a few inches away.

He is wearing the coat of a doctor that has been white before but is now gray by having been washed countless times; his dark hair, short and dull, is gathered in a low ponytail, his dark eyes are marked by worry, tiredness and deep sadness. The soldier closes his eyes and silently enjoys that presence. 

The doctor talks to him in a language he doesn’t understand so he forces his eyes open to soak in the way his lips move around words. The soldier smiles faintly and when he closes his eyes for the last time he doesn’t feel like he’s dying. He’s at peace.

*

_United States of America. July 29 th, 2017. _

The air in the subway is cold against his skin, with that particular taste of air conditioned and smelling heavily of sweats. He smells of sweat, too, and the perspirations dry against his tanned skin leaving him with goosebumps and shivering slightly. His sneakers squeak loudly on the almost deserted platform and there’s a strand of his long brown hair trapped between his shoulder and backpack and pulling at his scalp but he’s too tired to really care.

He sighs sitting on a bench to wait for his train and starts his playlist on shuffle; the music diffuses quietly from his earphones and he closes his eyes leaning against the wall. He has been working himself ragged with the deadline of his project looming nearer with each passing day and he just wants to go home and collapse on his couch. He doesn’t think he’ll make it to the bed this night.

The train is announced and he gets up slowly, his knees complaining with loud popping noises. The train is empty so he sits on a chair grateful.

At the fourth stop someone enters and he looks up genuinely confused as to why someone else would be out so late. It’s a guy who sits directly in front of the door in a heap of tired limbs. He studies him with sore brown eyes. The guy is dressed much like himself, in jeans and a shirt, with a black backpack on his shoulder, but with classic shoes. He’s pale and looks tired and the bags under his eyes are heavy and looks painful even from afar. He has black hair and he’s surprised to see how long it is when the guy pulls it free from the hair tie.

He sits a bit straighter and studies the figure keenly. There’s something almost familiar in him that calls to him and he feels helpless and a bit lost. The stranger glances at him sideways before turning fully and staring back at him with impossible dark eyes. There’s something powerful in those eyes, wild and ancient beckoning him, and he stares, lips slightly parted and breath coming out in small pants.

He fists his hands over his thighs searching that face, looking for something to explain everything because he doesn’t understand what is happening, why he’s standing and walking towards the stranger, why the other is standing and walking towards him, too. He feels like he has never felt before, like something greater is moving him, like something big is going to happen.

They stand in front of each other in the middle of the train, gazing into each other’s eyes and looking for something. His breath is still coming in slow pants and with each intake of air he feels himself waking, like something is slowly slotting in the right place in his chest. His breath hitches when the scent of a storm hits his nostril and his eyes widen when he can taste on his lips, on his tongue, the feel of thunders in the air.

He closes his eyes against the onslaught of tears and sighs softly before opening wet eyes and breathing awed and relieved and full and almost overwhelmed “It’s you.”

The other nods and he just watches as a strand of black hair tickles a pointed chin and a soft cheek. The other holds his hand up, an aborted motion meant to reach for his face, clears his throat and states around the softest smile he has even seen “Madara.”

He takes his hand and the sweaty palms slide together, fitting just right, and chokes out “Hashirama.” before dissolving into a tired and relieved mix of sobs and laughter. They collapse on nearby chairs and lean into each other soaking in the feeling of finally being whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!  
> This time I’m here blabbing away in the end notes.
> 
> I started writing this back in November and the process have been long and tiring. I had a lot of researches to do and a lot of adjustments to have to story organic and the way I imagined it. This fic has undergone a lot of fixing but I’m satisfied; I like the way it has come out in the end.
> 
> I want to share three small things about this story:  
> 1) The first scene I’ve ever written is the one set in Russia and the detail of the foggy windows is shamelessly taken from Mickey’s Christmas Carol. When I told my baby bro about it he wouldn’t believe me.  
> 2) The very first scene to have ever come to my mind when I first imagined this fic is the samurai scene. I’m pretty confident in saying that it’s my favorite scene and it still breaks my heart every time I read it. It’s soft and beautiful and painful but I really love it.  
> 3) I struggled for a long time trying to find a catching name for describing their two souls and their bond. I don’t know if I actually managed that but I still don’t know what else I could have done. ‘Flah’ came to me while I was showering and rinsing the soap from one of my tattoos: I suddenly remembered the Mirror of Erised from Harry Potter and just thought ‘why not?’
> 
> I really hope you liked the story and please let me know your opinions leaving a comment below! I always love to read your comments and your support never stops to warm my heart. So, thank you all so much.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Hh
> 
> *
> 
> PS: As always I’m my own beta, point out all mistakes and I’ll go back and fix them!
> 
> #NoBetaWeDieLikeShinobi
> 
> -Hh


End file.
